


Wordlessly

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Derek is bossy in bed, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't 'Derek doesn't use his words' as much as it was that 'Derek doesn't use his words to communicate what he wants'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wordlessly

It wasn’t _Derek_ _doesn’t use his words_ as much as it was that _Derek doesn’t use his words to communicate what he wants_. Sure, he was good at barking orders, at commanding Stiles to cut off his arm or to run from the Kanima or to look into this or to stop doing that. But what he wasn’t good at was telling Erica and Boyd that he wanted them to stay; he wasn’t good at telling Peter that he was glad to see him again despite every single fucked-up thing that had happened between the two of them. (Which made sense, in some weird, warped, nonsensical sort of way. That happened to be kind of the only way in which anything in Stiles’ life made sense these days.)

Derek’s wants— _his_ wants; not what was necessary for survival or beneficial to the pack, but Derek’s own personal desires and needs—were to be deciphered from sparse circumstantial evidence only. But Stiles, he lived with a cop. He grew up reading every single Sherlock Holmes story; he’d watched just about all the adaptations and spin-offs. When he was little, he used to wander off when his mom took him to the mall. She’d be half out of her mind with worry by the time she found him, usually on a bench near the escalators, observing the endless stream of men, women, and children with curious eyes. Eventually she learned to stop worrying and to just look for him there after her shopping sessions. Some Saturdays they sat and people-watched together for hours, ice cream cones in hand. She made up fantastic stories for some of the nameless faces that passed by.

Derek was a fortress, but Stiles was skilled at reading people. He knew to pay attention to the details. He noticed, for example, how Derek touched Isaac ostensibly to calm him down or keep him in check but actually to calm _himself_ down; how Derek’s shoulders were only fully relaxed when all members of the pack were in one place, even if it meant they were practically tearing up his new place (for real, not a day went by without a mug or a window shattering); how some mornings Derek looked like he hadn’t slept at all and how on those days the Camaro’s mileage counter indicated a number way different from the day before.

More than that, Stiles noticed the way Derek was around him. The way Derek’s gaze seared into him, the way those broad fingers dug too-painfully into Stiles’ flesh whenever they argued, the way Derek threw him against the wall harder and held him there longer than he did with anyone else.

“Fuck,” Stiles said. The back of his head was throbbing and his back ached and his biceps were on fire because Derek was clasping them too harshly, but he could barely feel any of it over the neon glare of the realization that… “You really need this, don’t you?”

Derek looked as if he’d been slapped across the face. “What?”

“You _need_ this,” Stiles said, looking down at where his hands were clenched into Derek’s shirt— in self-defense, for balance, whatever. “I always thought it was just some wolfy thing, just you forgetting I’m human and bruiseable from time to time, but you actually… you do it on pur—”

“No.” Derek’s eyes had a panicked glow to them. “Stiles. Shut up.”

While that was probably a wise suggestion, Stiles was still too shocked to obey. “I’m so right. You actually get off on—”

“Shut _up_ , Stiles!” Derek roared. His hands flew off Stiles’ skin as though it was burning him. He rushed backwards, chest heaving. Stiles’ heart was hammering and he wasn’t sure why exactly. The others stood awkwardly in the back; all of them must have ceased fight practice at some point during his argument with Derek. Scott looked ready to jump in. Allison was clenching her crossbow in both hands.

“You really need to learn when to shut the fuck up,” Derek told a spot on the floor somewhere near Stiles’ left shoe. He shook his head and stalked out of the room without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Jackson coughed and said, “What the fuck just happened?”

 

* * *

  
 

Derek’s house—as far as it could be called one; it contained a table, half a kitchen, and a spiral staircase that led to a barely-furnished bedroom—was closer to the center of town than the burnt-out Hale mansion and the subway depot. It took Stiles five minutes to drive over there, ten minutes to sit in his Jeep and wonder what the hell he was going to say.

Eventually he just climbed through one of the windows Erica had broken during practice the other day, creaked his way up the staircase, and blurted out, “Whatever you want, I want it too.”

Derek was nothing more than a vague silhouette in the middle of the mostly empty room. His voice cut through the darkness: “What?”

Stiles swallowed. “I know—” he said. Shit. “I want— I’ve seen the way you look at me. And I wanted to let you know that it’s okay. With me.”

Everything was silent except for the harried, staccato pulse of his blood in his eardrums and the sound of Derek’s leveled breathing.

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Derek said quietly.

Stiles was expecting it, was expecting the cool rush of air and the warm hard length of Derek’s body pressing him up against the wall, but his throat closed up anyway, hands involuntarily balling into loose fists at his side. “You have no idea about the things I want to do to you.” Derek’s breath was brushing against the side of Stiles’ neck. He shivered. It was too dark for him to see anything but the two glowing red circles of Derek’s irises.

Stiles closed his own eyes. “Maybe I do.” Derek smelled so fucking good— like aftershave and sweat and sleep and musk and danger.

“No, you don’t.” Derek rustled even closer. His warm hands were weighing down Stiles’ shoulders; their chests were aligned, Stiles’ thighs nudged slightly apart by Derek’s hips. Stiles could feel the jut of Derek’s erection against his lower abdomen, confirming what he already knew. Had probably always known, on some level of consciousness. His stomach swooshed.

“You don’t want this,” Derek said roughly. “You don’t want me to…” His voice faltered.

“What?” Stiles pressed. “What is it you want, Derek?”

“To fuck you against the wall just like this,” Derek murmured, the words rushing off his lips, sending a cascade of shivers down Stiles’ skin. “To hold your wrists above your head with one hand and hold you up with the other—your legs around my waist, you moaning into my ear.” Whether he did so on purpose or not Stiles didn’t know, but Derek pressed his hips forward, the bulges of their half-hard dicks brushing across each other briefly. Stiles bit down on his bottom lip.

“I want you face-down on my bed with your hands tied behind your back with my belt, I want to finger you until you come from just that, my fingers inside you, nothing more,” Derek continued. He tilted his head to the side, stubble scraping painfully against Stiles’ smooth cheek with every next word. “And then I wanna fuck your mouth, hold you down, pull your hair, come down your throat, wanna gag you and make you ride me until you’ve got no come left inside of you, wanna tie you to my bed for an entire day, completely at my mercy—” He inhaled sharply, fingers digging deeper into Stiles’ shoulders. “I want all kinds of things I shouldn’t want. All kinds of things _you_ shouldn’t want.”

Stiles’ throat was dry, so dry. He swallowed, swallowed again. “I want you to do whatever you feel you— need,” he said croakily. His legs felt like spaghetti. _Fuck_. “Everything you want— I want that. From you. With you. For you.”

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice a quiver as he stepped away from Stiles.

 

* * *

 

It was an argument between Derek and Peter that set it all off. Stiles was watching it, watching Derek’s eyebrows rise higher and his shoulders grow tighter, the muscles in his back bunching angrily; he saw the languid smile on Peter’s face which meant that Peter was winning. Then again, Peter always won. Derek was too ill at ease with himself to put up a good fight. In a physical altercation he could beat anyone; psychologically, not so much.

Derek roared, wolfed out, and punched the wall next to his uncle’s head. Stiles flinched at the sound of skin and bone splicing apart. Peter didn’t even move, started to laugh, and, all right, this was going to get way out of hand.

“Come on, big guy,” Stiles said, rushing to Derek’s side and grabbing the wrist of his uninjured hand— but then, the other one had probably healed by now. Derek growled but let himself be led across the room and up the stairs, which cried out dangerously under their combined weight. Stiles didn’t look back to see what the rest of the pack was doing. He didn’t want to think about the pack right now. This was about Derek. He directed Derek into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind them.

“You seriously need to—” he started, but Derek had him pressed up against the door in an instant, hands slipping across his shoulder blades and digging into the back of his upper arms. He was breathing heavily, panting down Stiles’ neck.

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles said, suppressing a shiver. “Be careful, that’s gonna bruise.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek gritted out against the back of his neck, stubble scraping against Stiles’ hairline. Stiles could tell from the sound of his voice that he wasn’t wolfed out anymore. “I’m sorry, I need— I want— Stiles…”

“You can have whatever you want,” Stiles said around the lump of want and exhilaration in his throat that had suddenly arisen. “I told you that. I meant it. Anything.”

Derek stilled against his back. His grip turned gentler. One of his hands dropped to Stiles’ waist, slid under his shirt. “Are you sure about this,” he murmured, thumb sweeping up and down.

Stiles closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Anything,” he repeated.

Derek half-growled and dragged him to the bed in the blink of an eye. Stiles ended up on his back in the middle with Derek on top of him, thrusting down, mouthing at his jaw, his throat, warm broad hands hungrily roaming the skin under his shirt. Stiles touched the back of Derek’s neck, but Derek reached up and pinned Stiles’ wrist down beside his head, all the while biting down on his collarbone and rocking his hips.

Obediently, Stiles raised his other wrist for Derek to take hold of. Both of them fit easily in Derek’s grip. Derek hummed and reached down with his free hand, tracing the outline of Stiles’ dick in his pants. Fuck. Stiles moaned, arched into the touch. His mind felt slow, hazy— he could barely believe this was actually happening.

“Fuck,” Derek mumbled, undoing the button and zipper of his own jeans and kicking them down, off the bed, along with his boxers. Stiles blinked up at his face as Derek took his dick in his hands. His eyes were half-closed, but his jaw was still tight with anger.

“Derek,” Stiles said. It came out a whisper.

Derek’s eyes flickered down to meet his. He leaned down, and for a second Stiles thought Derek was going to kiss him but all he did was align their cheeks and moan into Stiles’ ear as he started jerking himself off. Stiles swallowed, blindly pursuing the sound by twisting his head further to the side. Derek laughed breathily and pressed his open mouth against the skin in front of Stiles’ ear. “Have you ever,” he said, voice catching on the ‘ever’. “Have you ever had a dick in your mouth?”

“Jesus.” Stiles’ spine tingled. He arched off the bed, meeting Derek’s body.

Derek squeezed his wrists tighter. “I asked you a question.”

“N-no,” Stiles said. “No, I haven’t.”

“I’ll teach you,” Derek said. “Next time.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Stiles’ temple before moving, fluidly, to straddle Stiles’ head, still pressing his wrists down into the mattress almost painfully hard. Derek’s dick was flushed dark and glistening at the tip, hand wrapped tightly around it. Stiles was overcome with desire to know what it tasted like, what its weight would feel like in his mouth— he tried to reach it with his tongue, but Derek just laughed deeply and continued to stroke himself. The head of his dick kept bumping against the bridge of Stiles’ nose and his chin and his mouth, but never close or long enough for him to wrap his lips around it. Fucking tease.

“Next time,” Derek promised breathily. Stiles closed his eyes and allowed himself drown in it all, in Derek’s vice-like grip on his wrists, the half-choked moaning noises Derek was making, the sound of skin moving across skin and the smell and how good it felt, how good it made him feel. Just when he was starting to fear he might come in his pants, he heard Derek pick up his pace, groaning, “Fuck, Stiles, _fuck_ —”

Come started to land in spurts on Stiles’ face. Derek’s hand slipped off his wrists; one hand began to rub at the bulge in Stiles’ jeans. Stiles moaned. A warm, hot mouth closed across his. Stiles tasted salt. He didn’t even have time to blink his eyes open or to will his tongue to respond to the kiss before he was coming too, coming hard, his lower body blindly spasming up to meet Derek’s touch.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, after a training session that didn’t go well at all, Derek sent everybody home early and took Stiles upstairs. He made him kneel in the middle of the room and taught him how to suck dick, talked him through it with a deep, rough voice and a warm guiding hand on the back of Stiles’ head. After Derek brought Stiles off too, they practiced again, on the bed, Stiles nestled between Derek’s wide-spread thighs, trying to replicate everything he’d just learned. He smirked to himself when he felt Derek’s fingers dig helplessly into his skull.

Within a couple of weeks Derek could hold Stiles down like he did the very first time, grasp his wrists with both hands and fuck into Stiles’ mouth as deep and fast as he wanted without it triggering Stiles’ gag reflex. It was one of Stiles’ favorite positions— mostly because of the way Derek looked afterwards, all red-cheeked and hair matted down with sweat, his chest heaving and his face strangely unguarded.

Regardless, it was even better to have sex face to face; Derek fucking Stiles against the wall like he’d promised, or hooking his elbows around the crooks of Stiles’ knees and folding him in two, their noses bumping together with each deep thrust. This was better because Stiles could see the gradual transformation from clenched-jawed and angry to softly blissed-out, an expression which looked impossibly good on Derek and never failed to turn Stiles on even more.

 

Sometimes, on very bad days, Derek didn’t say a word as he closed his hand around Stiles’ wrist and led him to the bed. Derek would push him down on his belly and pull his legs apart as far as possible, prepping Stiles until he was a hairbreadth away from orgasm and then fucking into him roughly, Derek’s torso plastered against Stiles’ back (close closer closest). From the harsh, controlled snaps of his hips, Stiles would be able to tell that Derek’s expression was tight and vacant throughout.

“It’s okay,” he’d mumble, voice muffled by the pillow; “it’s all right, fuck, Derek, it’s okay, c’mon, yeah, it’ll be—fuck, so good, feels so good, Derek—it’ll be okay, fuck, you make me feel so good, yeah, oh, Derek, _Derek_ ,” and he was never quite sure whether his reassurances were punctuated with sounds of pleasure or if it was the other way around. It didn’t matter. By the time Derek had cleaned him up and was wordlessly pulling him closer for a nap or a kiss, the frown would be gone and his mouth would feel soft again.

 

One Sunday afternoon, Derek called him and Stiles went over to his place and Derek had him masturbate in front of the bathroom mirror with Derek’s muscled arms holding him up, his chin hooked over Stiles’ shoulder. Derek never took his eyes off Stiles’ hand as it moved across his own dick except to have their gazes meet in the mirror (“Keep looking,” Derek commanded. “Keep looking at yourself. See how fucking hot you look like this?”) When he got home that evening, Stiles did the same thing in front of his own bathroom mirror, but it didn’t feel half as good without Derek wrapped around him, watching him, whispering to him.

 

“How come this feels good for you?” Derek asked him, rubbing his thumbs in deep circles across the red ring the handcuffs had left on Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. It just does.”

“Do you think you’d like it if it wasn’t for me?”

Stiles wasn’t sure how to answer that question. “I don’t know,” he said. He couldn’t imagine sex without Derek. He didn’t _want_ to imagine sex without Derek.

Derek frowned and leaned back on his elbows, legs spread. He’d only just come but his dick was already starting to stir again. Damn werewolves. Derek looked as though he was going to say something, so Stiles crawled forward and pressed a wet kiss to Derek’s mouth. “What happened to you being bad with words?” he teased, reaching back to find Derek’s dick and coax it into a full erection.

“Not bad with words,” Derek gritted out. He tilted his head backwards, eyes sliding half-shut.

Stiles let himself sink down. He was still wet from the first round. “Oh,” he said, biting his lip. “Fuck— this feels so nice.”

Derek’s hands came to rest on his hips, pulling him further down, thrusting up to meet him halfway. Stiles moaned out loud. “Fuck,” he said again.

Grinning lazily, Derek thrust into him again. Stiles let his head tip back as well. “I think I might be in love with you,” he told the ceiling breathlessly.

Derek thrust up harder, winding his arms around Stiles’ neck to pull him down. It wasn’t a kiss— Derek nudged Stiles’ tongue away with his own and bit down on Stiles’ bottom lip, hard.

“Ow,” Stiles said. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” Derek said, pulling out to change their position, moving so lightning-fast that Stiles barely realized what was happening until he was face-down with Derek buried inside him again, his arms pulled haphazardly above his head with one of Derek’s hands circled around his wrists.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” Derek murmured against the skin of his back, pressing wet kisses to his shoulder blades. “Might tie you up again later.”

Stiles half-smiled into the pillow. It wasn’t an _I love you too_ , exactly, but for Derek it was pretty damn close to one. And that made sense to Stiles, in some utterly weird, warped, nonsensical sort of way.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you feel like any tags/warnings need to be added. Comments make my day. I'm also [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/).


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